Falling Into Things Left and Right
by somehowunbroken
Summary: 'Evan was good at his job. But Evan wasn't a blackjack dealer by trade; rather, his job was a job.' Fourth story in the Virus'verse. Rating for non-explicit slash, violence, adult situations, and Evan's swearing issues.


Fourth installment of the Virus'verse.

Pairing: Lorne crushing on Parrish. They'll get together soon, but not in this story.

Rating/warnings: R/slash (not explicit), violence, and adult situations. And language, because Evan has a potty mouth.

Disclaimer: The 'verse is mine, but nothing that lives there is.

* * *

Evan was good at his job.

On the surface, he was a blackjack dealer at Avalon, one of the more sedate casinos in Vegas. And sure, yeah, he was good at that, too; had a friendly, open demeanor that had people plonking their chips down on his table rather than others', took back just more than he gave away, made sure he was a model employee who was never late and didn't raise a fuss. So, yeah, he was good at that.

But Evan wasn't a blackjack dealer by trade; rather, his job was a job.

He was there to keep an eye on people. Specific people, of course. He had a list, memorized months ago, of the ones he was to keep tabs on. Faces, not names; they weren't that lucky. They all frequented the casino; several frequented his table. In fact, Evan thought as he looked around, four of the five currently placing bets were on that list.

Evan made mental notes of who was drinking what, who flirted with whom, how much money was changing hands, before he turned to the last man at the table. _He certainly stands out, _was the first thing that came to Evan's mind as he surveyed the man.

The other four at the table were larger-than-life, almost caricatures of people: a slim redhead and three pale-haired men, two of whom looked like they wouldn't be able to string sentences together if it came down to it, the other sharp and lean, eyes always roaming. They were clearly there as a group; all four had the same strange, pale, almost-green skin and yellow-tinged eyes. The woman had a tattoo on her neck, and the other three sported the same symbol on their faces. These were Evan's marks, the ones to keep tabs on, and Evan found himself mentally cataloguing information as he glanced at them. He shook his head, smiled as the five placed their bets, and dealt.

The fifth man was different because of his relative normalcy. He was tall, thin enough to be bordering on lanky. His face was open and expressive, though he kept it pointed towards the table, never once meeting anyone's gaze. Evan looked at him closely, watching for the tells that meant that he could get some money from the guy. There, and there, Evan noted, figuring the crinkling around his downcast eyes as clues to his cards. Evan worked his way around the table, dealing or passing as he went, keeping his eyes on the newcomer. The man barely said anything, but kept placing bets. Mostly, he just fidgeted with the sleeves of his button-down shirt as he pushed his chips in.

The four marks tired of the game after a while and left as one, the woman standing and walking slightly away with the sharp man before the two goons followed. The fifth man, however, stayed.

"You want to keep going?" Evan asked as the man placed another bet. He gestured to the table next to him, where another game was going; three people played, laughing as they clinked their chips away. "Might be more action over there."

"I'd just as soon stay here," the man said quietly, lifting his eyes to Evan's for the first time, and Evan found himself biting back a gasp.

The man was – beautiful, Evan supposed. Okay, so his nose was a little too big, and his mouth a little too wide, but the combination of his features with those soft, sad eyes gave Evan pause. He recovered quickly, giving the guy a genuine grin.

"All the same to me," he said, shrugging, and went back to dealing.

-0-

Evan's shift ended a few hours later. The guy sat there the whole time, pulling from a seemingly endless supply of chips, not really winning but not really losing either. Evan gave him a break. The guy looked like he could use one.

When his shift ended, Evan smiled at the guy one last time as he cashed his drawer, handing the table to Cheryl, a somewhat attractive blonde who hit on Evan every time they worked together.

"Night, Evan, love," she cooed as he walked towards the cashier, pushing his cart.

"Bye, Cheryl," he said with practiced ease, noticing that the guy was standing and leaving the table. Cheryl pouted at him as he wandered aimlessly through the people on the floor. Evan shook his head as he went through the tasks that came at the end of his shift.

An hour later, Evan was back in his street clothes, humming absently as he walked to his Jeep. It was a hot night, even for Vegas in July; the temperature was probably just below ninety, even this late at night, and Evan found himself glad he'd worn short sleeves to work. He was sweating by the time he got to the Jeep, the material of his thin cotton shirt clinging to his body.

Evan sat for a few minutes with his eyes closed, recalling the intel he'd gathered tonight. The woman's drink, the sharp man's remark to a passing waitress, the goons' practiced nonchalance when following the pair later. He committed it to memory, opened his eyes, and drove out towards the street.

He went to the gas station, not filling his tank but absently heading inside to get some things from the store. He grabbed a few items – Gatorade, a protein bar, tissues – before heading to the front to pay.

Evan froze.

The sharp man was there, leaning over the counter, talking quietly to the clerk. The clerk, for his part, seemed absolutely terrified; his eyes were huge, and he kept nodding and scanning the store, apparently looking for someone, anyone, to help him.

In his head, Evan swore a blue streak that would've made even John blush. He couldn't help the guy. Couldn't make himself a target to the sharp man. Couldn't lose his identity as the blackjack dealer, couldn't compromise-

And even as the reasons flew through his head, Evan was moving towards the front of the store, pausing to duck behind a display island and retrieve the Berretta holstered under the leg of his trousers. He took a deep breath, mentally apologized to John, and…

…stared, jaw hanging open, as he rounded the corner. The fifth guy, the guy from the table, had the sharp man pressed up against the wall, one arm twisted sharply up behind his back. The clerk was frantically dialing the telephone, yelling into the receiver. Evan shrank back behind the island, using the distraction to hurriedly re-holster his weapon, before he slunk out of the store and sat in the Jeep.

-0-

The police came and took charge of the scene. Evan took note of the squad car numbers, the appearances of the cops, the names he managed to snag as he answered their questions. No, he hadn't seen it go down; he'd just gotten off of work, was just swinging through to pick some stuff up on his way home, saw the situation inside and waited for the cops to show up, just like any concerned citizen.

The detective was a good-looking guy, broad-shouldered and dusty-haired, with more than a hint of the South in his voice. His identification, which he'd flashed at Evan when he'd arrived, labeled him as Detective Mitchell.

"And you're sure – absolutely sure – that you're okay?" Detective Mitchell asked again, as if the first three times Evan had assured him of that very fact had gone unnoticed. Evan fixed the man with his most charming smile – well, the most charming one he could manage after a full shift and waiting in his Jeep for an hour – and nodded again.

"Yeah, Detective Mitchell, I'm good," he said, shifting against the wall of the store where he stood talking to the man. "Just a long day, you know? And I've got another shift tomorrow." He let his tone say more than his words: _same shit, different day_. Mitchell nodded.

"Well, you think of anything else, you give the station a call," Mitchell finally said. "We'll probably be in contact with you anyway, later in the week, just a routine follow-up." Evan kept the smile glued to his face and nodded.

"Will do, sir," he said, leaning back against the least convenient convenience store he'd ever encountered. He angled his body just so, and Mitchell clearly read the body language as Evan intended: _I'm tired, I'm done, I want to go home._

Mitchell gave him a last sympathetic look and clapped him on the shoulder. "Right then," he drawled and walked off. Evan huffed and made his way back to the Jeep, sliding in without another thought.

He had already turned the key before he realized that the fifth guy was sitting in the passenger seat.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he swore, and he had the gun back in his hands, pointing at the guy, before he'd registered the inclination to do so. Evan lowered it incrementally as their location registered – crawling with cops, and he didn't have his conceal-and-carry on him – and said, voice low, "The fuck?"

"Can we just go somewhere else?" the guy asked, his voice sounding even more tired, heavier than it had when Evan had been dealing his cards three hours before. He held the gun resolutely in the guy's direction, though he didn't look very menacing, and in fact wasn't even raising a hand to defend himself from Evan's apparent gun-brandishing mania.

"No," Evan said levelly. "You can get the fuck out of my Jeep and walk in the other direction, though."

"Look, I'm-" the guy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up in a way that Evan would find distractingly attractive, had he not seen this guy strong-arming a Wraith recently. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, more quietly, and Evan almost leaned towards him to hear better before his brain caught up with his body. "You've got a gun."

"And you shoved a goon into a wall with no issue," Evan replied mildly. The guy grimaced.

"Didn't realize you'd seen that," he admitted, staring out the window vacantly. "I'm Parrish. Dave."

Evan tried not to blink. This guy was strange. "That's nice, Parrish," he said, purposely using the guy's – Parrish's – last name. "Why are you still sitting here?"

"I'm staying at the motel down the road," Parrish said after a minute. "I'll give you a hundred if you give me a lift."

Evan considered. He didn't need the money, but he was reasonably sure he could take the guy if it came to it, and Parrish looked utterly exhausted anyway.

"I'll give you a lift if you promise to get out when we get there," Evan finally returned. Parrish gave him a grin and nodded.

"Deal."

-0-

The drive from the gas station to the motel was less than three minutes. By the time they'd made the drive, Parrish was asleep against the seat.

Evan groaned. How did he always get into these situations?

A voice that sounded suspiciously like John's mocked him from the recesses of his mind. _Stop taking in strays,_ it chided, _and you won't have this problem._

_Fuck you,_ he replied to his mental representation of John, realized he was swearing at himself, and leaned over to shake Parrish's arm.

"Hey, man," Evan said, frowning as his hand made contact with Parrish's arm. He was still wearing the long-sleeved button-down that he'd had on in the casino, and though Evan was sweating through his tee, he could feel the cold radiating from Parrish through the clothing. Evan reached with his other hand to switch off the fans as he shook Parrish harder. "Parrish. Dave."

Parrish woke slowly, as if opening his eyes was a monumental battle he wasn't sure he could win. "Hm?"

"You promised to get out," Evan joked lightly. Parrish blinked, clearly confused. "At the gas station?" Parrish sat, confused look still on his face, fingers twisting in his lap.

Evan frowned. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked, taking a long look at Parrish's face. His eyes were sunken, Evan noted, and his skin might look healthy next to the marks' frightening tinge, but his color wasn't good.

Parrish blinked slowly, trying to answer Evan's question. "Steve," he said at last, and Evan frowned at him. "At the gas station. I had Steve pushed up against the wall."

Steve. He knew the sharp man's name. Evan filed the glorious bit of information away for later.

"You were at the casino," Parrish continued. "The blackjack dealer from Avalon."

"Yeah," Evan said. "And you're missing about two hours of your life."

Parrish lifted one shoulder and smiled, a tired, bitter smile. "I'll be missing a whole lot more soon," he said cryptically. He moved suddenly to the side and opened the door. "Thanks for the lift," he added, stepping out into the sweltering night.

Evan sat still for a minute, trying to process the strange events of the past three hours of his life. He shook his head, decided to blame John (because really, the man deserved it), and hopped out of the car. Parrish was leaning against the wall beside one of he doors, fumbling with a key card.

"Hey," Evan said, coming up behind him. "You okay, man?"

Parrish turned and stumbled, and Evan reflexively reached out and steadied him. Jesus, the man was _freezing_. Evan wondered how he'd had the strength to push the sharp man – _Steve,_ he reminded himself – against the wall and hold him there when he apparently couldn't keep his own feet under him.

Parrish didn't answer his question. His eyes were sliding closed again, and he crumpled into Evan. The key card fell from his hand and clattered on the ground.

Evan swore and propped Parrish against the wall, swiping the key card off the ground and opening the door to the room. He held it open with one of the chairs inside and went back out to retrieve Parrish. He struggled under the other man's dead weight, but got him inside and laid out on the bed. He flipped his cell phone open and hit one of the speed dials.

"Carson," he said without preamble when the other man picked up. "Got a problem that's right up your alley."

-0-

Carson was on his way, but he would be an hour yet, and Evan was pretty sure Parrish wasn't going to be in salvageable condition by that point. He debated actually calling 911 for about ten seconds before abandoning the idea. He'd had enough of the cops for today, and he didn't really want to explain why he was in a total stranger's hotel room, worrying that his body temperature was about ten degrees too low.

Decision made, Evan called the front desk and answered the door two minutes later when the housekeeping staff appeared with an armload of towels. The woman frowned at him and spoke with a light accent. "You are not Mr. Parrish."

"Friend of his," Evan lied, taking the stack from the woman. "He's sleeping and I really don't want to use his towel when I shower." He gave her the charm smile, and it seemed to work better here than it had on Mitchell. The woman gave him a somewhat vacant smile back and walked away.

He had already set the bath to run as hot as it could, and by the time he got into the room, the water was steaming. Evan dropped two of the towels in the tub without preamble, setting the rest of the stack on the sink. He stopped the water and let the towels soak up heat and moisture for a moment before wringing them mostly dry. He slung them over an arm and went back out to the bedroom area, where Parrish was lying, still as death, on the bed.

Evan tossed the damp towels on the bed next to Parrish and tugged at the man's shoes and socks before reaching for the buckle of his trousers. As he stripped them off, Evan wondered why it was that, fifteen minutes ago, he'd been ordering this guy out of his Jeep, but he now had no issue with stripping the guy almost naked in a cheap hotel room. His mind automatically blamed John, as it did with most things.

As soon as the trousers were off, Evan opened one of the heat-soaked towels and wrapped it around Parrish's legs, tucking the ends around his feet and hips. He made short work of the button-down, ripping the front open and making a mental note to replace the shirt if Parrish survived. He almost left the tee shirt on as he reached for the other towel, but stopped as he saw the very tip of a thin, angry red mark peeking from the neckline. Evan froze, pieces clicking into place, and then he was ripping the shirt from Parrish's freezing body.

The line ran from just below Parrish's collarbone to an inch below his heart. It was an angry shade of red the whole way down save for the very middle, where Evan saw thin blue lines radiating away from the cut.

"Well, _fuck,_" Evan breathed, reaching for the towel and his cell at the same time. He dialed the phone and set it on speaker as he wrapped the towel around Parrish's torso, suddenly very, very glad he'd decided against 911.

"John," he said when the phone picked up, before John could even get out a greeting. "I found another one. Stardust Motel off of Crichton."

John swore, and Evan could hear the sound of his friend springing into action. "How long's he been there?" John asked, and Evan could only stare at the man on the bed.

"He's still alive, John," Evan said quietly into the phone.

The phone went so silent that Evan wondered if he'd dropped the call. Then, John's voice. "Alive?" He sounded astonished, almost wondering, and Evan couldn't help but reflect the tone in his own voice when he responded, "Yeah, alive."

Evan stared at Parrish as he listened to John rummaging through something over the phone. "He's not doing too hot, though," Evan said, belatedly realizing his unintentional pun. "Literally, I guess. His temperature is ridiculously low."

"I'm on my way," John said, voice grim. "I've got the meds. Call Carson."

"Already did," Evan said, and hung up.

-0-

Evan changed the towels before John arrived, not ten minutes later, and Evan silently thanked whoever was watching out for them that John hadn't been pulled over. Parrish's temperature was improving slightly, but he still hadn't regained consciousness, and Evan was pretty sure he never would without some serious help.

"Where is he?" John asked as he launched himself from his car. Evan jerked his head into the room. He'd put the heat on full-blast and opened all the windows, trying to keep Parrish as warm as possible. He'd stripped off his own shirt against the heat in the process and now stood, bare-chested, as John hurried his way into the room and stopped as his eyes fell on Parrish.

"Jesus fuck," John swore, walking to the man's side. "You're sure?" he asked Evan, drawing a syringe from the bag he carried, followed by a vial filled with a clear pinkish liquid.

Evan nodded. "Took some pictures and sent them to Carson for verification," he said, reaching for the towel covering Parrish's torso. "But this pretty much gave it away." He pulled it back, baring the mark to John, who looked at it and swore again.

John filled the syringe with brisk efficiency before he leaned over and inserted it into a vein in Parrish's left arm. The man didn't move, and Evan hurried to cover him back up with the towel. He frowned, palming the towel, and went back to the bathroom for a fresh set. John sat back and watched him silently.

"So," he said conversationally when Evan had finished. "Where'd you find him?"

"Avalon," Evan said. "And the gas station down the road." He filled John in on the basic details.

"You're telling me that two hours ago, this guy," John gestured at Parrish, "had one of the Wraith pinned against a wall?"

Evan nodded. "He was conscious then," he said practically. John rolled his eyes.

"Steve," Evan said suddenly, remembering. "The sharp man. Parrish called him Steve."

John's eyes zeroed in on the still form on the bed. "Steve," he said thoughtfully, looking at Parrish as if seeing him in a whole new light. "Think that's actually his name, or just something your friend here made up because it's less ridiculous than 'the sharp man'?"

Evan ignored the jibe. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "But it's closer than we've gotten on our own in months."

-0-

Carson arrived half an hour after John, and Evan relinquished his role as Parrish's caregiver somewhat regretfully. He'd changed the towels every ten minutes or so, and between the warm towels and the injection that John had administered, Parrish's temperature was beginning to climb towards healthy and some color was starting to return to his cheeks. Carson checked his vital signs and drew out more syringes, taking blood and tissue samples and administering more drugs.

"He's lucky you found him." Carson's voice interrupted Evan's thoughts. "He'd be dead right now if you hadn't."

"Yeah," Evan replied. He'd thought the same. "He just kind of… appeared, Doc, I don't know." He shrugged. "Fell asleep in the Jeep and passed out on his own doorstep. Figured the least I could do for the guy was call you."

"Hardly the least," John quipped from Evan's other side. The three were arranged in the chairs that had been set around the table in the room, keeping a vigil over the man recuperating on the bed. Evan tossed a smile at his friend before rising to change the towels again. He glanced at Carson as he reached Parrish's side, and the doctor nodded at him.

"Can't hurt," he said, making to stand himself. "Want a hand?"

Evan shook his head. "Got it, Doc," he said, heading into the bathroom for fresh towels.

When he returned to the room, John and Carson were talking quietly. John was gesticulating wildly though his speech was muted, hands flying around his body before protectively settling on his own torso. Evan knew his hand would be resting over the scar that resembled the gash on Parrish's chest. He doubted John would set it there intentionally.

"Doc," he called out as he settled the last of the towels around Parrish's form. Carson and John fell silent, and Carson stood and hurried to the bedside. Evan pointed to Parrish's arms. "He's moving."

"Oh, thank God," Carson breathed. He watched as Parrish's arms twitched again, fingers flexing under the edge of the towel. He leaned over, close to Parrish's face. "David? Can you hear me, son?"

Parrish's eyes opened slowly, but they were clearer now than they had been the last time they'd closed. His head fell to the side, frowning at Carson and John, who waved from his spot near the table.

"Who-" his lips formed, but no sound came out. Carson held out a cup of water with a straw sticking from the top.

"Sorry, lad," Carson apologized. "We've only just developed the medication. It's got some side effects still."

Parrish sipped from the straw, not even attempting to lift his head from the bed. He stopped drinking and frowned at the ceiling as Carson took the cup from him. "Not hospital," he managed, looking around. His eyes landed on Evan and widened.

"Hey there," Evan said cheerily. Parrish just stared. "I'm not sure how much you remember," Evan continued, "so I'm going to sum it up. Do you remember me from the casino?" A nod. "How about the gas station?"

Parrish's eyes darkened as he thought, then flashed up to Evan's. "Steve," he said.

"Yeah, Steve, and trust me, we're gonna have that particular conversation later. Do you remember the police coming?" Another nod. "And getting into my Jeep?"

Parrish looked thoughtful. "Fell asleep. Sorry," he said, struggling to sit. Carson propped him up with the pillows from the bed and one of the chair cushions as Evan sat on the other side of the bed, bringing them on eye level with each other. "Carried me?" he asked, eyes flicking from the bed to where the parking lot was located beyond the windows.

"Well, you got out and walked to the door on your own," Evan retold. "But then you passed out on the doorstep. So, yeah, I carried you the rest of the way." Evan glanced from the door to the bed and back again. "And, um, you were pretty sick, so…"

His voice trailed off and Parrish seemed to notice his own lack of clothing for the first time. Evan gestured vaguely to the towels. "For warmth."

"Your temperature was dangerously low, lad," Carson cut in smoothly. "Evan called me as soon as he got you in here, and it was an hour till I arrived. Even then, you were far too cold." Carson frowned, grasping for Parrish's wrist. "Still are, in fact," he announced. He turned to John. "We should get him back, now that he's conscious."

"Back?" Parrish looked confused again. Evan felt like it was one of two expressions he'd seen on the man, and the other was comatose. He wasn't sure this was much better. It meant he had a lot of explaining to do.

"Let's go, then," John said, the decision made. He stood and helped Carson begin to pack his things. Evan stood and walked around the bed until he could crouch right in front of Parrish.

"You're coming with us," he said, trying to be gentle but firm. "We have – we can take care of you."

Parrish's frown deepened. "Where?" he asked cautiously, and Evan felt himself smile.

"We call it Atlantis."


End file.
